


Welcome to Hell, Angelus

by havocthecat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 02, Sunnydale Slayers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-01-01
Updated: 1998-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-05 03:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havocthecat/pseuds/havocthecat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You have to admit, when it comes down to it, Angel isn't the type to watch Dawson's Creek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to Hell, Angelus

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 1998, after Becoming 2 aired, to be posted to the Sunnydale Slayers email list, and later [mirrored on LJ](http://havocthecat.livejournal.com/372826.html).

"Hello," said the man in the suit. "You're not quite what we expected," he said, surveying Angel with a frown. "But we'll make do. We always manage." He tossed his binder aside. "Can the new recruit ceremony," he yelled off to the side.

"What?" Angel looked around. He wasn't sure where he was, or what had happened. "Where am I?" He looked around again. "Where's Buffy?" He was confused, and these leather pants were really warm. Come to think of it, when had he bought a pair of leather pants?

The man in the suit tugged at his tie and chuckled. "Don't worry, Angelus. It'll all turn out for the best."

Angel's eyes narrowed. "I don't go by that name any more," he said coldly--as coldly as he could when his thin shirt was so covered in sweat that it stuck to his chest.

"You don't remember a thing, do you?" Why didn't the man in the suit look the least bit uncomfortable in all this heat.

"The last thing I remember is Buffy." Angel grabbed the man's shirt and shook him. "Where's Buffy? What have you done with her?"

"Now, now, there," said the man, pulling out of Angel's grip--somehow, and surprisingly easily. "If you'll just follow me, we'll get you all taken care of."

"And if I don't follow you?"

"You don't really have much of a choice, do you?" The man gestured behind Angel, and he saw the Judge step into his peripheral vision. "Burn him if he misbehaves," he told the Judge. "Now, come on and we can get this over with." He paused and chuckled. " _I_ can get this over with."

Shrugging, Angel followed along. He'd have a chance to escape later, and then he'd find Buffy and...and what? There was something--something he was supposed to know, to remember, but he couldn't quite figure it out. The leather pants had to be the key. Maybe Buffy had bought them for him? "Where are we going?"

"To my studio," said the man.

He tried to ignore the presence of the Judge. "Will Buffy be there?" They couldn't have hurt Buffy--he would know if anyone, anyone at all had done anything that would have even given her a paper cut. They were connected. All he needed to do was find her--then he could kiss her, and hold her, and ask her where the leather pants--which were rather uncomfortable, actually--had come from.

"Maybe she'll be around." The man pulled out a key and unlocked the door that had rather mysteriously appeared. Angel thought he'd heard the man mutter something about, "In commercials," but he wasn't sure.

Angel hesitated, but the Judge shoved him over the threshold. "Where are we?" He looked around. The walls were covered in monitors. The only furniture in the room was a dentist's chair. With straps. And a tray. With dental equipment. Where was Buffy? He'd thought she'd be here.

"Why don't you have a seat, and I'll explain it all," said the man, who had lit up a cigarette and was puffing calmly away.

"A seat?" Angelus backed up--straight into the Judge, who picked him up and deposited him in the chair. "Why are you doing this to me?" He struggled futilely against the straps the Judge was placing around his wrists, ankles, and his waist.

"You _were_ supposed to be our greatest ally," said the man. "But then that girl restored your soul--again--and now we're stuck with Mr. Goody Two Shoes. We've got to do something with you to pass the time."

His soul. That was what he was supposed to remember. His soul. Buffy! What could have happened to Buffy while he was away? "Let me out of here!" Angel twisted against the restraints, but the Judge slammed his head back against the chair and secured a leather strap across his forehead, and he was effectively immobilized. "I have to find Buffy!"

"We have something much better for you," said the man. One cigarette dropped to the floor, and he lit another. "Much more...entertaining."

"Hey," said a man in a dentist's coat. "Is this the one with the crooked teeth?"

"Yes," muttered the Judge, turning to go.

"Good." He walked up and jerked Angel's chin down, peering in and examining his mouth. "You could use a full set of braces, you know," he said. "Plus some teeth need to be drawn, and those wisdom teeth--hah, the way you work, kid, that's a misnomer--they've gotta go." He reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out some metal jaw forms and a large tub of pink goop. "We'll start by getting some molds of your teeth."

Angel whimpered.

"This won't hurt a bit," said the man, who looked far too much like Santa Claus. He couldn't be in the North Pole. Santa didn't do orthodontal work.

"Hey," said a woman, lugging a camera through the door. "You guys started yet? No. Good. I got a special request on this one. Seems some tribe of Rom up in heaven want this caught on film."

Tribe? Of Rom? Why did they want a picture of him in leather pants? Angelus tried not to gag and cringed away from the orthodontist, who was intent on shoving the mold "just a bit further back to get a good impression." Buffy wasn't a Rom, and she was the one who bought him the leather pants. Or so he guessed. It really was warm in here.

"And while you're getting such lovely dental work done, Angelus," said the man, puffing on his cigarette. "We have some wonderful entertainment for you." He took a remote out of his pocket and pressed a button. The lights dimmed, and every single television monitor flickered on.

No. No one could be that cruel. It couldn't be. Music filled the air.

"I don't wanna wait...for our lives to be over..."

Angelus screamed, and the orthodontist took that opportunity to pound part of his new braces onto a tooth--using a particularly large hammer and chisel.

Dawson's Creek. Braces. A camerawoman sending a tape of his ordeal to a tribe of Rom. Worst of all, leather pants in this temperature. It was sheer...

"Yes," said the man, chuckling. "Yes, indeed. Welcome to hell, Angelus."

\--end--


End file.
